


Wet to My Touch

by splix



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Extremely Dubious Consent, Humiliation, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 07:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2613005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splix/pseuds/splix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Mands vilje er mands himmerig:</i>  His own desire leads every man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wet to My Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to kimberlite and vilestrumpet for beta and Britpicking!

He's here.

I'm not surprised, naturally – he seems to exist on a diet of cheap pasta, curiosity, and an inflated sense of his own worth. Still, the alacrity with which he accepted the invitation was a bit disappointing. I thought he'd parry more, especially after that little display of defiance in his hospital room. Must be awful to lie still and helpless, knowing that anybody can come in and do whatever they please to you, and your only choice is to take it. He's either more or less intelligent than I thought. Either way, tonight is going to be fun.

The doors slide open smoothly and there he is, looking a bit diminished, as if he's recently discovered the fact of his own mortality and found it a terrible shock. He saunters in, none of the convalescent's cautious behaviour evident in his gait, but the strain tells on his white face. Slightly weak still.

That's nice.

Before taking five steps, he looks round prudently, making a clean sweep of his surroundings with his eyes, as if he expected bodyguards with guns. He's also conspicuously empty-handed. Again, I'm unsurprised; he thinks this is a gambit on his part. For the moment, I won't disabuse him of that dreadfully foolish and wrong-headed notion.

"Sherlock." I like calling him that. Shows him his place right away. Sit; there's a good boy. "You haven't brought your brother's laptop."

"This isn't Appledore." There's a supercilious little smirk on his face. "I told you I'd bring it when you invited me to Appledore. This is a stopgap, Mr Magnussen. You must know that. Besides, it isn't Christmas yet."

"True." I turn and walk toward the flat, letting him follow. Of course he does. "Do you celebrate Christmas, Sherlock? Do you and your appalling brother meet at your parents' house for goose and plum pudding and Christmas crackers? Does your mother ask if either of you are finally going to give her a grandchild?"

"She's never asked."

"Mm. Well, I must give her credit for some observational skill." I stop beside the Le Corbusier chaise. This will be quite good enough. It's always had a certain flair, sort of a dental-office chic. I gesture to it. "Sit."

"I'll stand." He clasps gloved hands behind his back. His scarf is wound firmly round his neck. He's a modest sort of fellow, customarily. No sexual indiscretions of any kind. At all. Ever. Isn't that interesting?

Shrugging, I lower myself onto another far more comfortable chair and fold my hands. "I'm surprised you agreed to come, frankly. You were so adamant about seeing Appledore, and so ridiculously disappointed that I wore ordinary spectacles. Really, your face. Hilarious. Are you picking up any clues here? Anything at all?"

He glances casually around, but I see him assessing, classifying, cataloguing. Familiar techniques – oh, dear, if he only knew the truth. "You wouldn't scatter your information. Nothing's here – it's all at Appledore."

Not true at all. "Nothing?" I reach into a smoked-glass box and produce a remote control, thumbing it. A screen slides down, glowing vibrant blue. "How are you feeling physically?"

"Fine." He's watching me closely now, waiting for me to give something away. 

"No lingering effects from your gunshot wound? That's marvellous." I stretch my legs out. "You had so many people concerned about you. Though I understand you didn't receive many visitors. Dr Watson, of course. Mary, sweet poppet that she is. Janine. That mousy young lady who smells of formaldehyde. Mr Lestrade. Your parents. Dear Mycroft. Oh, and me, of course. Not a very long list, is it, for such a famous detective?" He's silent. "Did you enjoy the flowers I sent?"

A muscle twitches in his cheek. "Not particularly."

"Hm. Well, I would have liked to have visited more, but…priorities, you know. Still, it was fun." I let my gaze travel over him slowly: up and down, lingering on his face, his shoulders, down, down, down. His eyes are heavy-lidded with feigned contempt; he doesn't move, except for that muscle in his cheek. Twitch. Twitch. "Don't you think?"

"Did you invite me here for a reason, Mr Magnussen?"

"Not interested in social chat? A man after my own heart. Yes, indeed I did, Sherlock. Take off your clothes."

That provokes a reaction. His eyes flare wide, and his mouth drops open. " _What_?"

"You heard what I said."

His expression fluctuates between astonishment and anger. He's remembering now, thinking back to our little tete-a-tete in the hospital. So easy to read. "Good night, Mr Magnussen. I'll see you at Christmas, if you're still interested."

I'd almost feel sorry for him if I were capable of such a thing. Whatever resentment he harbours toward his formidable brother is quite overshadowed by his obvious dependence upon him, which Mycroft is happy to nurture. Very unhealthy, the two of them. Sometimes I wonder about their upbringing. That aside, even Sherlock Holmes' staggering curiosity isn't enough to make him give up a nation's secrets and condemn his own brother to a traitor's punishment.

He turns on his heel.

"If you leave this room," I say, very softly, so that he is obliged to stop and listen, "you will never see Appledore. I promise that."

"I won't play your game. Nice try, though." His voice is cutting, a nasty sneer. I imagine stripping off my damp socks and stuffing them into his mouth, forcing him to taste me, watching his eyes widen, listening to him choke. Oh, _there's_ a thought. Next time, perhaps.

"Oh, yes. You will." I look up at him. "What did you tell the police who questioned you about the shooting, Sherlock?"

He stops, hesitates. Uncertainty floods his face. "What?"

"What did you tell the police who questioned you?" I enunciate carefully, as if he were a very slow learner. I'm almost sure he isn't.

"I…I said I didn't see Ma – my assailant's face."

"Did you? That was very generous, wasn't it?"

Sherlock shrugs, a small, graceful upward lift. So nonchalant. "If you say so."

"I do. What do you suppose would happen if the police knew you were lying? To you? To Mary? To Dr Watson?" I linger over that last, and watch his eyes widen. I understand he's not a half-bad poker player, but it's difficult to believe, honestly.

Suspicion supplants arrogance. "How would they know?"

Heavens. Sometimes it's so easy, the smallest amount of orchestration seems like overkill. I thumb another button, and there's a video feed, taken from above. Me – not my finest hour, admittedly; Sherlock Holmes; and Mary Watson, _nee_ Morstan, _nee_ \- well, et cetera, et cetera.

Sherlock's voice. _No, Mrs Watson. You won't._

Bang.

_I'm sorry, Sherlock. Truly am._

_Mary?_

I freeze the frame and click my tongue. "Isn't that lovely? Such touching trust."

Sherlock's face is whiter now. Perhaps his wound is hurting. He gropes for words; he's not quite as quick as one would ordinarily expect. "They…the police will want to know why you sat on it for so long. Why you didn't come forward."

"Yes, I expect they would. Unfortunately, we've been having issues with our security system, and IT's only just got all the bugs worked out. Hours and hours of CCTV footage to wade through. I put the ticket in myself, the night all that unpleasantness happened. It's back-dated a bit, of course, but…." I shrug gently. 

"But she came in to shoot _you_." Smug and triumphant again – I'm really going to have to do something about that. I wonder how he would look in one of those old-fashioned scold contraptions.

"That's true. Some of the outfits that employed her – the CIA, for example – are not happy with me at all. Very distressing. I've upped my security because of it, an old grudge from a very long time ago. Nothing personal, you understand. And it's amazing what a good voice actress can accomplish. She sounds just like Mrs Watson – whom I don’t know at all, of course. It's astounding." I'm bored with parrying. "So, Sherlock. You can stand there and take off your clothes, or I can let all this information out. Your choice."

His hands curl into fists. I can read his face.

"You can attack me, but I push this –" I indicate a button on the remote control. "—and an alarm sounds. All is lost. For you, for Mary, for Dr Watson. John." I lean back, and wait, and watch. 

Sherlock clenches his teeth. Bad for the enamel. His eyes are glacial. But his hand drifts up to the scarf looped round his throat.

"If it helps, this particular encounter will only take a few minutes. I believe in a slow buildup. I can be a remarkably patient man."

He tugs at the end of the scarf. "If I do this…you'll leave Mary alone. And John."

Of course not. "For the moment. One doesn't decide these things instantly. Go on. The sooner you begin, the sooner it will be done."

There's always a moment when the prey realises it's cornered; it's possible to discern the rapidity of their thoughts, assessment of possible options, calculation that is anything but sly – on the contrary, it's desperate as desperate can be. Anger, loathing, hatred. But finally, and most importantly, fear. What an exquisite motivational tool fear is. And as brilliant as fear for oneself is, it's fear for a beloved that truly scintillates. Sherlock Holmes is no different from any other man in that respect. He's reputed to be isolated, but oh, no, he is not. And because he is not, he unwinds the scarf and pulls off his gloves.

I won't repeat myself. I can wait all night if he wants to take his time.

After a moment in which he glares at me – how he'd love to destroy me, that's another familiar expression – he apparently decides to get things over with. He tosses his coat onto the chaise, works his feet out of his shoes, and strips off his socks. Faster now, he unfastens his trousers and yanks them off. There is a glimpse of plain grey underwear clinging lovingly to his very pert backside as he turns to deposit his trousers atop the coat.

I've kept the room cold in anticipation of this little confection of an evening, and he registers it suddenly with a nearly imperceptible shiver. His speed slows. He turns away from me – sweet modesty! – and unbuttons his shirt. That's perfectly all right. The back view is as fine as the front.

He drops the shirt on the chaise. The muscles of his back flex enticingly. His hands go to his hips, flutter for the merest hint of a second, and then he draws the clinging fabric down, over his buttocks, his thighs, his calves. He steps out of them, showing me the soles of his feet one by one, and lets them fall to the floor. Straightening, he stands perfectly still, his hands at his sides, deliberately relaxed. The tension in the rest of his body tells, however. His shoulders, his back, his skin rising into gooseflesh.

"Turn, please."

Everything clenches – it's terribly funny. Slowly, he turns to face me. I examine his bullet wound for a moment, still angry and red, then drop my gaze to his cock. Unimpressive. Perhaps it's the cold.

"What exactly do you think you're going to gain from all this?" Sherlock's jaw is tense. 

"Bit of a giggle, nothing much." For now, at least. "What's important is what you're gaining, Sherlock. Mary's freedom. John's peace of mind. That's important to you, isn't it?"

He doesn't answer, and stares straight ahead. I see his eyes beginning to glaze over.

Oh, no. No mind palaces for Sherlock tonight. "Stay engaged, Sherlock. If you retreat, it's over."

"I don't know what you mean." He is calmer now, full of contempt. His body, he thinks, means little. Well, we'll see about that.

I ignore the remark. "On your knees."

He starts visibly. "No."

"No?"

" _No_." His teeth are fully clenched now. It's very unattractive. "You've had your fun."

"John," I say softly. "Think of John." I eye him up and down once more, lingering at his thighs, his belly, his tight nipples. Oh, it _is_ chilly in here.

And now his emotions are ragged. His breath shudders out of his body as he lowers himself to one knee, then another. Those fine and beautiful hands are clenched once more.

"Now to all fours."

"You…." But that is all he says. He places his hands upon the floor. His back arches slightly, his cock hangs down, unaroused, small and vulnerable.

"Come toward me, please." 

Below his luxuriant curls, his face is red despite the cold. I can't see the expression in his eyes, but his mouth is trembling ever so slightly as the truth dawns. Yes, Sherlock, you are owned, and you must crawl. 

He does, at a glacial pace – again, perfectly acceptable. He stops an arm's length from me.

"Closer."

Now I can hear his breath, and watch his chest rise and fall. He looks at me with utter hatred, but that's hardly a novelty, and eventually he seems to realise it. He comes closer, his shoulder nearly brushing my knee.

Very, very nice.

"Those scars on your back. Where are they from?"

He waits almost ten seconds before answering. "Serbia."

"I see." I brush my hand over his back. He recoils – whether at my touch or its chilly dampness, for it is very cold, I haven't any idea. It doesn't matter. I could buy any number of professionals willing to feign enthusiasm. It's the very genuine reluctance that excites me. Indeed, I feel the evidence of my excitement beginning between my legs. I smooth my moist palm over the slightly ridged skin, then move further down his back, until I am cupping his arse with one hand. The other is on the alarm button. One can't be too careful.

I insinuate my middle finger between the lush cheeks of his arse and let the rest of my fingers dig into the flesh. Quite round for someone so lean. "What is it about Dr Watson that captivates you so, Sherlock?"

He doesn't answer, so I push my finger deeper inside. He gasps and jumps. I might have cut him with my fingernail. Or perhaps he's never had a finger up his arse.

"I asked you a question."

"He…he's my friend."

I sigh. "Yes, but you don't have friends, do you? You have associates, acquaintances, informants, enemies. Only John Watson is your friend. Why?"

Sherlock is trembling now. I'd check to see if he's getting hard, but I can't quite reach that far. "I don't know."

"Neither do I. You didn't even tell him the truth about your little European sojourn, did you? Does he know how much you sacrificed for him?" I rotate my finger slightly.

His sides are moving in and out. He wants to dart away, but he can't. Trapped by one finger.

"I'm waiting for an answer."

"No. No. I didn't t-tell him anything."

"That's either very noble or very stupid of you. He's living back at your disgusting little flat again, isn't he? Spat with the missus, I take it? How pleased you must be. Still, knowing about Mary would destroy him. So you absorb all this. You suffer in silence for him. Do you ever think of doing this to him?" I push my finger in deeper. "Or perhaps you'd rather have him do this to _you_. You haven't got a history of preference, except for a few unwise incidents of cock-sucking for drugs."

Sherlock doesn't answer. His body is beginning to glisten with sweat.

"Open your legs a bit wider."

He obeys with gratifying speed. I pull my finger from his arse and slide my hand up to his balls. Oh…he _is_ enjoying this. At least his body is. I'm reasonably certain his brain is screaming a hundred kinds of negation.

"Listen carefully." I cup his balls and hold them. "Whatever you're thinking – and believe me, I know your thoughts are uncharitable at this moment – remember that I own you, Sherlock." I squeeze gently, but firmly enough to provoke another gasp. "I want you to remember, too, that this is only the beginning. How loyal a friend are you? Shall we discover together, you and I?"

His face is turned down, reflecting faintly in the polished-marble tile. His body quivers; his breath sobs out of his chest. And I realise, with perfect exultation, that his loyalty to John Watson is absolute. This will continue indefinitely, and incrementally.

I lean closer, and push the tip of my tongue against the entrance to his ear canal. He shudders, but holds himself rigid as I suckle his earlobe. Soap and sweat and the faintest trace of Endymion. Oh, how very appropriate.

"Very nice," I murmur against his ear, and pull back. "You may dress."

He glances at me wildly, naked apprehension written on his face.

"Get dressed, Sherlock. I'll see you at Christmas, yes? I'll send an escort to your parents' house. I presume you'll be there on Christmas day. Best if nobody knows, I think. You can arrange that yourself." I rise to my feet, step away from him still on his hands and knees, and sniff my hand. "Good night." I leave and go into the bathroom to wash.

When I emerge, he's already gone. I watch him on the lift camera. Such drama! He wrings his hands, snarls, kicks the wall, paces back and forth. Then, nearing the ground level, he abruptly collects himself, stills, and waits for the doors to open, arranging his features into perfect neutrality, only the hot blush on his cheeks lingering evidence of his discomfiture. He saunters out of the lift, into the lobby, onto the street, hailing a taxi with utter nonchalance.

I sit down again, back up the video.

_Take off your clothes._

I open my trousers and take myself in hand. It's very damp already. But that's the way of things.

Sherlock will learn that soon enough.

 

End.


End file.
